


Grifting With The Enemy

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: AU, Crime, F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, Multichapter, Romance, Some Plot, Tumblr Prompt, and fluff, and fun, but mostly flirting, falling in love with the enemy - Freeform, prompt, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-16 20:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11260110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: Red is planning to rob a bank but his trusted grifter falls through and he needs a new one. Enter Liz, a la The Harem, early thirties, proficient in stealing, brush passes, lock picking, etc. using a youthful persona to be successful. The only problem? Liz has made a habit of stealing from Red’s interests. So can they work together and complete this heist? Attraction and flirtation will abound! A falling-in-love-with-the-enemy Lizzington AU prompted on tumblr!





	1. Chapter 1

It is a calm, cool night in Washington, a light summer breeze rustling the leaves in the trees, a full moon bright and clear in the night sky and Red is on the phone.

“Enrique, are you _sure_?” Red asks, pacing in front of the cracked window, the sounds of the peaceful night life doing nothing to calm him.

“Yeah, Red, I’m sure. I completely botched the job man, I’m sorry. It was just a little thing to pay the rent until our gig but the cameras weren’t turned off like they should have been and they got me, clear as day. My picture’s all over the news, there’s no way I can swing the heist without being recognized. I gotta leave town for a bit until things calm down, man. I’m sorry.”

Red sighs, frustrated but not angry at his long-time grifter.

“That’s all right, Enrique, it wasn’t your fault. Do you need any help? Money, transportation?”

“Nah, I’m good, thanks Red. I’ve got a plane ride sorted out with a friend and I managed to swipe a few grand and a _really_ nice watch before I had to get the hell outta there.”

Red chuckles, amused, as always, with Enrique’s enthusiasm for stealing.

“And, hey, Red, I don’t wanna leave you hanging, you’ve done too much for me over the years. Call Gordon. I’m sure he can get you another grifter in no time.”

“Yes, I’m sure he can, Enrique, but not one I trust as much as you.”

“I’m sorry, Red. Call me for the next one, will ya?”

“Absolutely, my friend. Travel safely.”

“Good luck.”

Red hangs up, sighing deeply once again. He’ll call Gordon in the morning to see if he can get another grifter this last minute. Red would do the job himself -- it certainly wouldn’t be his first bank robbery -- but he is much too recognizable. He is number four on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, after all. And this heist must be successful, his reputation is at stake. He needs someone unknown, inconspicuous, stealthy. And above all, talented. He hopes Gordon has someone because, by god, he needs the best grifter he can find.

\-----------

“I know exactly who you need, Ray.”

“Are you sure, Gordon? This is an important job.”

“Absolutely. She’s young, quick, and hell with a set of lock picks. Not to mention easy on the eyes.”

Red hears Gordon chuckle over the line and rolls his eyes.

“You know that doesn’t matter, Gordon.”

“Yeah, I know Ray, I’m just saying. But honestly, I haven’t seen a grifter like her in a long time. Give her a try, please. You won’t regret it.”

Red pinches the bridge of his nose. He isn’t looking for young, he’s looking for experienced. But, really, what does he have to lose at this point?

“All right, Gordon. Set up a meeting.”

“Excellent. You’ll love her Red, I promise! I’ll let you known when and where.”

\----------

Red steps out of the car, neatly parallel parked by Dembe at the curb between two large SUVs. Dembe locks the car and follows Red across the street, looking a little too smug about his parking job.  
"Don't get too confident, Dembe. Remember who taught you how to parallel park." Red murmurs to him.

Dembe snorts and rolls his eyes, channeling his inner teenager, about the age he had been when Red had first taught him to drive. Red grins at him, remembering that time fondly.

They stride towards the back door of an office building, which is clean but fairly empty; to Red's eyes, obviously a front for something illegal. In this case, Gordon's grifting services.

Gordon had called back almost immediately with this address and instructions to meet here within the hour. Red was pleased with his punctuality. Gordon obviously understands what is in this for him if he does his job and supplies Red with a good grifter.

Red opens the door and bypasses both the bored-looking secretary and the elevator to head for the stairs, Dembe following close behind, cautious and observant as always. They always take the stairs when given a choice; in Red’s experience, stairs are much more reliable than small metal boxes suspended by cables. 

They start to climb. 

"Raymond, what will you do if this grifter isn't to your liking?” Dembe inquires softly. “Will the heist continue?"

"I'm not sure yet, Dembe. Let's meet her first, shall we?"

Red opens the door to the fourth floor and heads to the sixth office on the right, as instructed. He knocks briskly on the door and waits, turning to look back at Dembe, who nods calmly. Red turns back around as the door beings to open, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst.

"Hey, Red, thanks for coming." Gordon says, shaking his hand eagerly.

"Of course, Gordon, thank you for arranging this on such short notice." Red says sincerely. If he has learned anything over the years, it is to keep your friends close until they are your enemies.

Gordon ushers Red and Dembe into the sparsely decorated office. Red moves in, assessing the format of the room, memorizing all available exits, driven by habit.

However, he only gets as far as the east wall of windows before he stops.

A young woman is leaning against the bookshelf in the far corner of the room, staring at him. She is young. Very young. Barely twenty, Red would guess. Her posture is nonchalant, careless, and extremely confident. She wears black skinny jeans and the edge of a dark blue top is visible from underneath her black leather jacket. A brighter blue beanie is fitted snugly over her dark hair which is hanging free around her face. Perched on her nose are large, black-rimmed glasses that Red can immediately tell she doesn't need. What a ridiculous fashion statement. 

She is so young.

Red almost turns to leave right then. He doesn't care what Gordon says, he needs someone experienced, not a young girl who's managed to rob her local convenience store with a little bit of luck and the distracting of the night manager.

But then, as he observes her, her lips twitch up into a cocky smile and she winks at him.

Well, Gordon did get one thing right. 

She is stunningly beautiful.

Her eyes, an unearthly shade of blue, seem to pierce him as she stares him down, grinning and untroubled.

She is far too young for him.

But Red thinks he may see what she has to say. Just to humor her, of course.

"Red, this is the grifter I was telling you about. Elizabeth Scott, a real talent." Gordon gestures unnecessarily towards the woman, who seems to decide it is time to step forward, pushing herself off the bookcase, sighing as she does so, as if it is a great bother to her.

She steps forward, lazily offering her hand.

"You can call me Liz," she says simply, peering at him from behind her huge glasses. How is it that they seem to make her eyes even bigger and bluer? He has a sudden irrational fear of falling into their depths.

"Liz, this is the potential client I was telling you about, Raymo--"

"Raymond Reddington," Red interjects smoothly, feeling the need to gain some ground. Gathering himself, he takes her hand and is mildly surprised by her strong grip as she shakes his hand curtly.

"You can call me R--"

"Red. Yeah, I know. Don't think I haven't heard of you, Mr. Reddington. And I think we should keep things formal for now, don't you? At least until we decide if we'll be working together." She smiles winningly at him and he has to blink, feeling a little as if he's looking into the sun.

"I'm sorry, until _we_ decide?"

"Of course. I can always refuse to take the job, you know. I find the big heists always go more smoothly when all the participants are on equal footing, don't you _Red_?" She stretches out his nickname into something that sounds a little more mocking than friendly. And was that a threat he heard in that sweet suggestion of hers? The girl has nerve, he'll give her that.

"Why of course, Ms. Scott. But I'm afraid I can't tell you all the details of the job until you accept. I can't have you babbling to the authorities, can I? Standard procedure, you know." He smiles happily, hoping to intimidate her.

"Of course, of course," she murmurs, moving around him to inspect a potted plant sitting rather sadly on a corner table. "Well, what _can_ you tell me, Mr. Reddington?" She asks politely.

"I'm going to rob a bank." He says simply.

There is a beat of silence in which she waits for him to continue. When he remains silent, she turns away from the uninteresting plant and raises her eyebrows at him.

"That's it?" She asks, drily, blinking lazily at him.

He shrugs, grinning at her, once again feeling confident.

"I see," she says thoughtfully, beginning to wander slowly around the room again.

"Don't trouble yourself with making a decision yet, Ms. Keen." he tells her, watching idly as she pulls herself up to sit on the window sill. "I don't know anything about you yet." 

"That's true." She agrees calmly, inspecting her nails. He chuckles, amused by her lackadaisical attitude, and turns to remove his coat and place it neatly on the back of a chair. He thinks he might be here a while and he figures he might as well be comfortable.

"And you certainly don't know anything about me." He continues, sitting down in the chair and making a show of getting comfortable, straightening his vest and picking imaginary lint off his slacks. That routine always unnerves potential employees, it’s infallible, it--

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." 

Red frowns, looking up.

"Excuse m--"

"Obviously fake ID and driver’s license, name Bill Kershaw. Interesting choice."

And there she is, sitting on the window sill, legs crossed daintily, thumbing through his wallet. Red's hand automatically goes to his pants pocket. Empty. 

Well then.

She must have swiped it when she was walking around the room. For him not to have felt it and Dembe not to have seen it, well.

Perhaps he has underestimated this girl.

"Two credit cards, money," she continues, rattling off the contents of his wallet, "about one hundred dollars in cash -- jeez, only a rich guy would carry that much cash -- and, oh," she pauses, fishing something out of a back billfold, eyebrows raised, "an _extra-large_ condom. How interesting." She murmurs the last part, craning her neck a little to glance coyly at his lap. 

He smiles, amused and intrigued this beautiful girl. Perhaps he will give her a try. It couldn’t hurt, could it?

"It’s amazing how much you can find out about a man from the contents of his wallet, isn't it, Mr. Reddington?" She asks sweetly, tucking the condom back into his wallet and tossing it lightly to him.

Red catches it smoothly, returning it to his pocket.

"Very impressive, Ms. Scott," he rumbles, peering at her through lidded eyes, "I didn't even feel that brush pass. And trust me, I make a habit of being aware when a beautiful woman is that close to me."

Her lips quirk, amused with his flirting. "Brush passes are only one of my many talents, Mr. Reddington." She lilts, flirting back.

"Oh, I'm sure," he says, delighted with her response, making a point to obviously run his eyes over her seemingly endless legs.

She blushes lightly, looking down, and Red can't help but smile.

Gordon clears his throat and Red suddenly remembers he and Dembe have been present this whole time. How odd. How was completely immersed in his verbal sparring and flirting with this girl. No, woman, he supposes. It might be easier on his sanity if he tries to think of her as a woman. He glances back at her, smiling shyly at him now from the window sill. No. Girl.

Dembe shifts subtly on his feet by the door and Red knows it’s time to wrap it up. They don’t have any other meetings today but Dembe is surely hungry. Dembe is always hungry.

“Well, Ms. Scott--“

“Liz.”

He raises his eyebrows at her.

“Well,” she says, shrugging, “I’m certainly interested in this job. Are you not interested in me, Mr. Reddington?”

He smiles at her obvious innuendo. Despite her age, he is interested. Not romantically, of course. She is much too young for him. Of course. But she managed to steal his wallet in a relatively empty room and he didn’t even notice. He thinks she may be able to pull off the heist, with enough practice and planning. And hell, at this point, what is he supposed to do? He desperately needs a grifter.

All right. He will give her a chance.

He nods at her. “All right, Lizzie.” He chooses not to use her proffered nickname, simply to assert his dominance. But, strangely, she doesn’t seem to mind.

She nods back, hopping off the window sill, pushing her glasses up her nose. “All right then, Red.” She grins at him. “I gotta run.”

“But what about the details of the job?”

“Hmm…” she taps her chin. “Tell you what, I’ll call you.”

And she pulls his phone out of her pocket and tosses it to him. 

Oh, this is going to be a gas.


	2. Chapter 2

Red heaves a sigh, easing himself down into his favorite armchair, propping his feet up on the coffee table. He had only a handful of meetings today but he is exhausted. He hasn’t been sleeping enough and he’s been drinking far too much, as evidenced by the size of the bags under his eyes and the amount of scotch in his tumbler. He would go to bed now and sleep like the dead but he’s waiting for Dembe to return from his…errand. 

After thanking Gordon, Red and Dembe had left the office building and gone straight back to the car. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Red had only one thing to say to Dembe:

“I want everything you can get me on her.”

Dembe had just nodded and drove them back to their current safehouse while Red made some phone calls in the back. When they had arrived, Dembe made a few of his own phone calls to various contacts of Red’s, aiming to collect the intel Red wanted. He had left soon after to pick it up. 

At the moment, Red wants to see him safely back and then hopefully have a bit of late night reading on his new most intriguing associate: Elizabeth Scott.

Liz.

Lizzie.

He knows it’s a sizeable risk to take on a new grifter so quickly without the proper background checks first but there was just something about her…Red couldn’t help but say yes to her impossibly blue eyes. And her quick reflexes. He still isn’t sure how she managed to swipe his wallet. But, at the same time, she was also sure to swipe his…interest. Dembe thinks he’s foolish, surely. Red can tell, knows him too well to expect anything else. And Red doesn’t blame him. He usually makes a point of being more immune to women he’s working with. At least before he gets to know them better. 

But with Lizzie, he can’t seem to help himself. He wonders if this will become a habit. He wonders if he cares.

Red’s musings are interrupted by a key rattling in the lock. Ah, Dembe is back. Wonderful. The door opens and the man in question shuffles in, carrying a thick manila envelope. Red can immediately see how tired Dembe is by the slump of his shoulders and the hang of his head. He will sleep deeply tonight.

“Here is the information you requested, Raymond.” He says softly, handing him the envelope.

“Thank you very much, my friend. Get some rest.”

Dembe nods sleepily and heads to his room. 

Red puts his scotch down and eagerly turns to the envelope, breaking the seal and leaning forward in his chair to spread out the contents on the coffee table. The first thing he sees are several undercover photographs of Liz in action, wearing a variety of subtle disguises, including sunglasses, beanies, and wigs. He feels the corners of his mouth pull up into a soft smile, seeing the talented, and beautiful, young thief at work. 

The photographs show Liz in and outside an assortment of establishments that all look…strangely familiar. Red frowns, flipping through the photographs faster. His eyebrows lower as he lays the photographs out next to each other on the coffee table. 

No, he’s not mistaken. And no, this can’t be a coincidence. 

“Don’t think I haven’t heard of you.” she’d said.

Red scoffs and collapses back into his arm chair, picking up his scotch and taking a generous swig, shaking his head. He should have known something about her was too good to be true. Every photograph, every place Liz is shown to be robbing, is a business Red has significant ties to and investments in.

Elizabeth Scott has been stealing from him.

Red waits for the familiar surge of anger that should accompany the discovery of such a betrayal. He should be mad, livid, beside himself.

But it doesn’t come.

Red quickly realizes that of the various things he is feeling, anger is not among them. Irritation perhaps, and a touch of annoyance at the sizable inconvenience that Liz was able to cause for his businesses but there is mostly surprise. Awe. And more…interest. 

How intriguing.

Red then realizes that, strangely, he has no intention of renouncing Liz. He still wants to use her for this heist. After all, if she can steal that successfully from him, he can’t imagine what havoc she can wreak on his enemies. And the odds are she was being consistently hired by his adversaries to steal from him, not mounting a full-fledged attack on his empire of her own accord. She wouldn’t have met with him if she was trying to declare a war. Liz may be a thief but she’s not stupid. Yes, he will use her for this heist. At any rate, it will keep her from stealing any more from him for the length of the operation. He’ll make sure of that. Keep your enemies close and all that. 

(At least, this is what Red will tell Dembe when he inevitably asks if Red has lost his mind. And Dembe will scoff and shake his head and not believe him. And Red won’t blame him.)

Red nods to himself, satisfied with his plan of action. He takes another sip of scotch and then leans forward to pick up a typed sheet of information that was included in the packet of photographs, skimming the facts about Lizzie collected by his trustworthy sources. Orphan, adopted father, raised in Nebraska, bachelor’s degree in psychology (Red snorts at that. Psychology. The perfect useless degree for an aspiring thief), currently single (Red tries not to linger over that fact), apartment in a nearby DC suburb. Red stops.

Hmm.

Perhaps he and Dembe will pay Lizzie a little visit tomorrow morning. He can question her thoroughly about her recent business endeavors and get her up to date on the heist. And perhaps he will finally gain the upper hand in this little dance of theirs. 

He smiles in anticipation at the thought.

\---------------------------------------------------

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Dembe mutters to him, keeping watch, glancing subtly up and down the empty hallway.

Red shoots him a look from his current position, crouched down in front of Elizabeth Scott’s apartment door.

Picking the lock.

“You’re just grumpy because I got you up so early,” Red says, jiggling the pick a little. 

Dembe grumbles something unintelligible. Because it is early. 7:00am, as a matter of fact. But Red wants to be there well before Lizzie wakes. To surprise her, unnerve her, show her that he is not someone to be trifled with, despite all her successful thievery from him. 

(And perhaps the thought of her all warm and sleepy sends a thrill through him but that doesn’t matter. Not at all.)

Red sighs in relief as he finally moves the last tumbler and the lock clicks back. 45 seconds. Not bad by any means but certainly not his best time. He’s out of practice. 

Red stands swiftly and eases the door open, slipping his lock-picking tools into his pocket, while Dembe, with a final cautionary glance down the hallway, follows him inside.

Hearing Dembe close and re-lock the door behind him, Red moves slowly into the apartment, listening closely for any movement upstairs that might indicate Lizzie is awake. He hears nothing. He sheds his coat and hat, placing them neatly on the back of a chair by the door that holds her purse and other going-out essentials. He tries to shake a strangely domestic feeling as he does so. He moves forward past the little entrance hall into the main living area. It is quite a beautiful loft apartment. Red can’t wait to snoop. 

He moves forward eagerly to inspect the closest thing, her bookshelf. It is surprisingly well packed for a young thief fresh out of college. Red expects to see girly magazines and sappy romance novels. But instead he sees a plethora of psychology books, ranging from encyclopedia sized to the average novel length. Red frowns. Her college textbooks perhaps? No, it doesn’t look like it. Well, perhaps she has a vesting interest in the human psyche after all. Interesting. He skims the remaining books, a mixture of classics and murder mysteries.

Hm.

He moves on, around her comfortable looking leather couch, and crouches down to her modest entertainment center to peer at her DVD collection. He expects much the same as he did with her books, chick flicks and romances. But he is once again surprised, seeing only a handful of “girly” movies that are lightly sprinkled amongst a variety of dramas and psychological thrillers that would probably grace his own collection, if he ever stayed long enough in one place to amass one.

Red frowns, straightening up, and turns around to actually look at the apartment, doing a 360 degree turn to take it all in.

There is light, simple décor on the walls and a handful of neatly framed paintings, which are an interesting mix of minimalist and impressionist styles with, unbelievably, a well-painted portrait of Freud on the far wall.

Red blinks, confused. This is Lizzie's apartment? This doesn't make any sense. Red prides himself in his ability to read people and have an accurate idea of their personality, likes, and dislikes within the first ten minutes of meeting them. This kind of skill comes from years of experience and keen observation. Following his instincts, he had easily pegged Elizabeth for a typical young girl in her early twenties. But this apartment clearly shows the personality of a slightly older, more sophisticated, very intelligent, introspective woman.

How fascinating.

If there was any doubt that Red would be working with Lizzie before, there certainly isn’t now. Red has never been more stunned by a first meeting and then this completely turned around by a second. Elizabeth is a mystery. And he is curious. 

And when Red gets curious, he digs deeper.

Red is snapped out of his enthralled stupor by a creak from upstairs. 

Elizabeth is up.

A strange thrill goes through him at the thought and he hurriedly pushes it aside, walking to the couch and sitting down, adjusting his vest. Dembe takes his place behind the couch. Ah, the old breaking-in-and-making-himself-comfortable routine. It unnerves people every time. He smirks, already pleased with himself, as he sees movement at the top of the stairs.

"Good morning, Lizzie!"

He takes pleasure in seeing her jump, almost falling down the stairs in her surprise, hand going to her ankle apparently out of habit. Interesting. She probably wears a knife strapped to leg. He'll remember that.

She straightens up quickly, seeming to realize she's just given something away, and plasters a carefree smile on her face, smoothing down her oversized t-shirt.

Her oversized t-shirt.

"Well, good morning, Red. Dembe."

The only thing she's wearing.

"This is certainly a pleasant surprise."

No, he sees a peek of blue cotton as she sashays down the rest of the stairs. She's wearing blue cotton panties and an oversized t-shirt. That's all.

And she's waiting for him to speak.

Dembe surreptitiously kicks the back of the couch.

Red clears his throat. 

"Yes, I imagine it is."

Great. He's come here to take her off guard and somehow, he's still the one to end up speechless. He should have anticipated her state of undress and been prepared for it. But even if he had, he gets the feeling it wouldn't have mattered much. Her legs look even more smooth and endless when they are bare and jean-less.

With considerable effort, he drags his eyes up her legs to stare at her face, which is smirking at him once again. Her hair is pulled up in a messy, sleep-tousled ponytail and her face is free of makeup, pale and pretty. Natural. 

He thinks fleetingly that she doesn't need makeup. She's gorgeous.

She’s also standing with her arms crossed and her hip cocked in what he’s coming to recognize as her trademark confident pose, once again asserting dominance over Red. 

Now that won't do.

"What can I help you with this early in the morning, gentlemen?" She asks politely. "The heist isn't today, is it?" She smirks again, teasing Red.

Oh, she's so young.

"No, it's not, Lizzie. But I thought you might want to discuss the details of the job sooner rather than later."

“At 7:30 in the morning?"

Red shrugs, smiling pleasantly. 

"We're early risers."

He can feel Dembe seething behind him. Ah well. He'll make it up to him with Indian food for dinner tonight.

“I also thought you’d like to know that it has come to my attention that you’ve made… rather a habit of stealing from my interests.” He watches her carefully. She stiffens slightly but maintains her uninterested expression. 

“Oh, yes? Well, I must admit I was wondering when you would figure that out. But it’s nothing personal, Red, I was hired to do all those jobs and I was paid good money to do them. You’ve rather a lot of enemies, if you haven’t noticed.” She grins tightly at him, still wary. 

“Oh, yes, I’ve noticed.” He smiles darkly. “But there’s no need to look so ill at ease, Lizzie, I assumed as much. And I understand a young thief such as yourself has to make money wherever she can.” He sees some of the tension leave her shoulders at the sincerity in his voice. “I’m willing to forgive your past… indiscretions against me in exchange for not taking any other jobs from now until after our heist is complete. I assure you that your cut will have you well compensated for any gigs you may miss in the meantime.”

She pauses, narrowing her eyes a little at him, trying to gauge the amount of honesty she sees there. He stares back at her calmly, openly, unperturbed.

“You want a truce?” she inquires suspiciously.

“I suppose that’s a good name for it, yes.” He agrees. “Mostly to make sure you aren’t stealing from me behind my back.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You really think I’d be stupid enough to double-dip from Raymond Reddington?”

He smiles in spite of himself. “No, I don’t. But it pays to be cautious.” He says simply. “This pact will also ensure your complete and utter availability and loyalty for this heist. My previous grifter got into a spot of trouble with a simple gig he took to keep himself busy.” 

“Enrique? Yeah, I heard about that.”

“You’ll understand the necessity then.”

She hesitates, her blue eyes flickering back and forth between his green ones. 

Hers are the color of a clear, cloudless, bright blue, early morning sky. Beautiful.

“All right, then,” she agrees finally. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“Wonderful!” proclaims Red, smiling brightly at her. “With that little matter out of the way, we can move on to more pleasant business! Now, this heist –“

"Hang on,” She interrupts with a chuckle, holding her hand up to stop him before he can get going, “I don't know about you two but I need some coffee in me before I discuss work. Want a cup?"

"Oh, please." Replies Red, equally surprised and delighted, as she turns and pads to the small kitchen to plug in the coffee maker.

Red tries not to stare at her as she goes.

Dembe clears his throat pointedly as he passes Red, following Liz to the kitchen. 

"Oh, shut it." Red mutters to him as he stands and makes his way to the kitchen as well.

Dembe snorts quietly but otherwise stays quiet.

"How do you like your coffee?" Liz asks politely, bustling around, setting out milk, sugar, and mugs on the island, still sans pants.

"Would you like to dress before we begin?" Red questions courteously, both for her comfort and for his sanity.

Liz shrugs, perching on a kitchen stool at the island and demurely crossing her legs. Red notices that her lower half is tactfully hidden by the counter.

"This is how I usually eat breakfast. Does it make you uncomfortable?"

Red works his mouth.

"Not at all."

Lizzie grins.

"Alright then."

Dembe hides his smirk behind his mug.

"So," Liz starts, taking a sip of her coffee (three creams and two sugars, Red notes) and once again taking the lead, "What do I need to know about this heist?"

Red sighs, taking a fortifying gulp of his own coffee (just one sugar, Liz notes) and smooths down his tie, preparing himself.

Time to impress.

"Our target is one Amos Rodfield," Red begins imperiously, feeling both very comfortable with commanding a room and very excited at commanding Lizzie's attention, "owner of the AR&M Bank in downtown D.C."

But, once again, he doesn't get very far.

"AM&R?" Liz repeats, somewhat incredulously. 

"Yes," Red answers, a little irritated at being interrupted one sentence into his tirade. "It stands for 'Amos Rodfield and Money'. Not very original, I know."

"No, I know what it stands for." Liz says, waving her hand as if batting away a fly. "But we in the grifting business call it 'The Fortress'. That place is impenetrable."

"Perhaps for some." Red states confidently. 

Lizzie's eyes narrow at his cockiness. He feels a tiny stab of guilt. He finds himself quickly speaking again to get rid of that sliver of irritation he sees in her eyes.

"But I think with the combination of my sizeable resources and your substantial skills, we'll be able to accomplish it without difficulty."

The thinly veiled compliment seems to please her, her blue eyes lightening, and Red feels an easing in his chest.

"All right then," Liz says flippantly. "I'm always up for a challenge." She grins at him in a way that makes his heart stutter. 

Ah. Well then.

"So, what did the poor Mr. Rodfield do to bring your formidable wrath down on him?" She quirks her eyebrow at him.

Red chuckles, endlessly amused by her.

"I was a loyal client of his for many years, storing a large portion of my funds in his bank with complete trust in his discretion and animosity." Liz leans forward a little on her stool, becoming enthralled with his dramatic storytelling, his hands gesturing to bring even more life to his words. "But after seven years of loyal service, one minor competitor comes knocking and he gives away some important information with only a few questions asked."

Liz frowns. "But why would he do that to you after seven years?"

"Well, to be fair, I don't think he meant to. My competitor and their motives were well disguised."

"Well then, why don't you punish the competitor, not the banker?"

"What makes you think I didn't?" Red ask with a strange, dark glint in his eyes that sends a shiver down her spine.

"Not to worry, I took care of the main problem.” He continues easily. “But Amos really should have known better. Loyalty is invaluable in my business, especially when it comes to money. So, I withdrew all my funds immediately and made it clear that I would never again be paying for his unreliable service."

"And that isn't enough?"

"Not quite. It was a rather well publicized betrayal and people connected to me may get the idea that little slipups like that are acceptable, if they can get away with it. They most certainly are not. So, my goal is to rob Amos and make it obvious it was me, thereby sending a message to the rest of the criminal world that I am not someone to be tested. It’s the price of business, you see, Lizzie."

Liz nods. She is not unfamiliar with the vindictive ways of criminals in Raymond Reddington's circle. But she can't help but admire all the thought and planning that obviously goes into Red’s every movement, so unlike the clumsy low-level crooks and drug dealers she usually deals with. 

"Okay," Liz says easily. "So what now?"

Red just looks at her for a moment, surprised at her acceptance of the back-stabbing and two-faced nature of the criminal underworld he lives in. He can't help but look at her and wonder how such a young, beautiful, talented thing like her became so deeply immersed in the world of crime. And why does she seem so at home there? 

Red mentally shakes himself and nods jerkily at her, swigging the last sip of his coffee and standing. He hears Dembe preparing to leave behind him.

"Now?" Red repeats. She nods, looking up at him, eyes twinkling. "You get dressed and enjoy your day, Elizabeth. I'll be contacting you soon to set up another meeting."

"And will that one be in my underwear as well?" She asks cheekily. 

"Certainly," Red purrs, looking at her with lidded eyes, pausing in shrugging on his coat and donning his hat. "If that's how you usually plan heists."

She blushes prettily and smiles.

He tosses her a wink and sees himself out.

He can't wait to get started.


	3. Chapter 3

Liz sighs, tapping her fingers against the kitchen counter as she watches the microwave plate spin, popcorn bag slowly inflating in the center, the staccato pops of the kernels punctuating the quiet of her apartment. 

She is having a movie day.

Since her tentative truce with Red prevents her from taking any jobs until his heist is complete, Liz had enjoyed her first day off in ages after he and Dembe left, tugging on a pair of yoga pants to accommodate her simple plans of lounging around her apartment. That was pleasant for one day. Then Liz decided she should be doing some productive things with her time off. So she did some laundry, went grocery shopping, and cleaned her apartment from top to bottom. She also gave a long overdue call to her dad, telling him all the details of the gigs she had done since they had last talked. 

Sam taught Liz everything she knows about being a grifter. In his heyday, he was a very well-known thief, stealing and performing break-ins for the minor criminals in and around Nebraska. He stopped when he decided to adopt her, wanting to clean up his act and be a good role model for his surrogate daughter. But when Liz was older, he got the itch again, going on small jobs when she was at sleepovers and birthday parties. In her teen years, Liz started to hang out with what Sam probably should have seen as the wrong crowd. However, he suspected what she was up to and discovered she had a talent for her adopted father’s past-times. Thrilled, Sam began to teach her all he could and she delighted in the knowledge. 

Sam had encouraged her to go to college and study her passion, psychology, and told her that there was no reason why she couldn’t use her degree to help her steal by analyzing potential employers by letting her training tell her who was safe to meddle with and who she should steer clear of. 

Liz had followed her beloved father’s advice and has been settled in D.C. for several years, a successful thief. And Sam couldn’t be more proud. He was delighted to hear about her big job with Red but he advised her to be careful. 

“Those big bads are dangerous. Watch yourself, Butterball. Don’t let him turn on you.”

“I won’t, Daddy.”

After catching up with her father, Liz had realized there weren’t many other chores she could do around her apartment. So, today, she was treating herself to a movie day, complete with popcorn and pajamas, re-watching her favorite movies from her collection and thoroughly enjoying her well-earned down time.

And waiting for Red to call.

She sighs again, thinking, for what must be the millionth time in the last three days, about Red.

She still can’t believe he broke into her apartment. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised – he is a criminal after all – and she can’t help but admire the skill it took for him to pick her lock without arousing suspicion in her neighbors or waking her up. Her lock is no simple thing. As an experienced lock-picker herself, she made a point to invest in the most sophisticated one she could afford to bar passage into her apartment. And yet it was still no match for Red Reddington. 

Liz can easily imagine those large, tan hands with long fingers and neat nails skillfully manipulating the pick to –

The shrieking of her smoke alarm startles her out of her daydreams. She curses and wrenches open the microwave door, coughing when light smoke starts to cloud her small kitchen. She throws open the window over the sink and quickly pulls a kitchen stool under the smoke alarm, hopping up onto it to press the small round button and shut the damn thing off.

She plops down to sit on the stool, resting her head in her hand, resigned to waiting for the air to clear and the burnt popcorn to be cool enough to throw away, the nasty stench already crinkling her nose. 

This is not the first time in the last three days that she has lost track of time thinking about Red. She has also left a load of laundry in the dryer too long, effectively shrinking one of her favorite shirts into oblivion, and missed a whole twenty minutes of her last movie, having to rewind it when she realized the tiny people on the screen had had the gall to go on talking when she wasn’t paying attention.

Liz knows that she should snap out of it. These feelings are too dangerous for her to be having for an employer. Especially when said employer is the Concierge of Crime. And _especially_ when she has been stealing from said Concierge. 

But Liz can’t deny that Red had seemed honest when he told her he would forgive her sins. But the man is a professional liar. But liar or not, he does seem genuinely smitten with her. But he is a famous womanizer. But Liz can’t help but be flattered by his attention. But is there any young woman that wouldn’t be flattered by the attention of Raymond Reddington? But if women weren’t falling over him, he wouldn’t be a very good womanizer, would he? 

Ugh. 

Liz puts her head in her hands, her convoluted thoughts starting to give her a headache. All she can be certain of at this point is that, no matter how trustworthy Red may seem, she should be very wary of him and she should definitely not, under any circumstances, develop feelings for him. 

At all.

She groans, a weight settling in her stomach that feels strangely like inevitability. 

When is he going to call anyway? He said he would call soon. But how soon is soon? Three days seems like plenty of time to Liz, certainly “soon”, so why hasn’t he called? Because she’s eager to get to work, she tells herself, not because she’s afraid she’s starting to forget all the different colors in his eyes, no, she –

_Ring, ring._

Liz jumps off the stool in a panic, whirling around, looking for her phone. Where did she leave it? Stupid, she should be keeping it within reach at all times, dummy, what was she thinking, oh, there it is. On the coffee table next to the remote, where she left it when she went to make her popcorn, of course. She snatches it up and looks at the caller ID. 

Unknown. 

With her heart pounding in her chest, she presses “accept” and puts the phone to her ear. 

“Hello?”

“Lizzie.”

Her heart leaps. Oh, it shouldn’t be doing that.

“Red!” she says happily, trying not to sound too out of breath or crazed or excited or like she’s been on pins and needles for three days waiting for this call. 

“Lizzie, how are you?” he asks warmly. Or at least it sounds warm with her phone pressed so hard against her ear.

“I’m well, thank you.” She says shyly, feeling herself blush, despite the fact that he obviously can’t see her. Geez, pull it together, Liz. “And yourself?”

“Good, thank you.” He’s good. Good. That’s good.

“And how is Dembe?” She can’t help but inquire after the strong, silent bodyguard.

“He’s good as well.” She thinks she can hear a smile in his voice as he says this. She wishes she could see his face. “Have you been enjoying your time off?” he asks.

Liz grins, slowly sinking down onto the couch, tucking her legs up underneath her. “Yes, I have. I’ve given my apartment some sorely needed attention and today I’m having a movie day.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’m sorry to have interrupted you.” 

“Oh, you didn’t. I was in between movies.” She says quickly, for some reason finding it very important that she reassure him. Liz suddenly wishes that she was using Sam’s old cord phone, wanting something to twirl around her fingers as she speaks to him.

“Oh, good.” He murmurs, almost humming in her ear.

She settles further into the couch, trying not to swoon.

“Well Lizzie,” he starts, louder now, seeming to gather himself after a peaceful moment of listening to her breathe. “I’m calling to ask if you’d be free to meet with me tomorrow around…say, three o’clock?

Liz bites her lip, trying not to find it adorable that he’s asking for her availability when he knows perfectly well that she isn’t working. 

“I believe I will be free, yes.” She tries for carefree aloofness but she doesn’t know how successful she is. “Where should I meet you?”

“My current residence. Shall I text you the address?”

“Please.”

“Certainly. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Lizzie. Enjoy your movie day.” He says courteously, and with a hint of amusement, she thinks. Cute.

“Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

Liz hangs up, puts her phone back down on the coffee table, and tries to smother her grin. She shouldn’t be so eager to see Red again, she really shouldn’t. And if she is, it should only be because she’s eager to start planning the heist and that’s all. It’s the only thing preventing her from taking new jobs after all.

But she can’t deny that the thought of seeing Red once again fills her with excitement and anticipation. She can’t wait to resume their verbal sparring in person, when she can really observe Red and learn his different facial expressions and habits. As a student of psychology, every person presents different mysteries for Liz and Red? Well, Red is the most mysterious person she’s ever met. 

And she can’t wait to unravel him. 

\-----------------------------------------

_Knock, knock._

Liz rocks back on the balls of her feet as she waits for someone to answer the door, adjusting the strap of the messenger bag slung across her chest, which contains her lock-picking tools, disguises, and other thieving essentials. She doesn’t know exactly what Red has planned for today but she wants to be prepared. 

She hears movement on the other side of the door and a second later it opens, revealing a pleasantly smiling Dembe.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Scott,” he greets her politely. “Please come in.” 

With a slight shock, Liz realizes that this is the first time she’s heard Dembe speak, despite the fact that he’s been to her apartment. And seen her in her underwear. Interesting.

His voice is deep and warm, not completely unlike Red’s, but lightly accented. Something African, Liz thinks idly. But instead of the tingles of electricity and excitement she feels when listening to Red speak, Dembe’s voice elicits calm and comfort that rumbles through her pleasantly, like warm syrup.

“Thank you, Dembe,” she says sincerely, moving past him into the house. “But, please, call me Liz.”

He nods, smiling at her, a friendly light in his eyes. In just these first few moments of interacting with him, Liz can already tell that the large, dark-skinned bodyguard is a gentle giant with a kind soul. She can easily see herself taking a friendly, sisterly liking to him. She suddenly hopes that they will have the opportunity to spend more time together in the future. 

“Raymond is in the first room on the right, Liz.” Dembe tells her, gesturing down the hallway past a sitting room and a small kitchen.

“Thanks.” She grins at him and saunters down the hallway, sinking quickly into her usual working mindset: young, careless, and confident. It hasn’t failed her yet.

She gets to the room Dembe indicated and, seeing the door pulled to, raps lightly on the wood, easing it open slowly.

“Ah, Lizzie!”

She hears his booming voice before she sees him but as he comes into view, she freezes. 

He is striding toward her across the room, looking both comfortable and confident, which is quite a sight in and of itself. But instead of the full three-piece suits she has previously seen him in, he is wearing only an un-buttoned, cream-colored vest over a white button down shirt. With the first two buttons undone. This casual look is completed by his normal dress slacks and designer shoes. A quick glance around the room locates his matching suit-jacket neatly draped over the back of a loveseat. This overall look is so different from their previous encounters that it stuns her into silence.

He is very handsome. 

Score one for Red. 

The man in question, of course, notices her short bout of preoccupation. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive my casual attire but today is rather a day off for me so I thought I’d dress down for our little meeting.”

Dress down. Unbelievable. Only a rich guy would consider a vest, button down, and slacks “dressing down”. 

Liz works to quickly recover herself, deciding to play coy and flirty. This tactic has worked very well with him in their past encounters.

And it certainly isn’t a stretch for Liz.

She snaps back into character, having only stared in silence for less than a minute, and tilts her head, giving him a drawn-out once over, making sure to linger below his eyeline.

What a treat. 

“Not at all. I think the look suits you.” She smirks at him and then she can’t resist. “And after all, you’ve seen me without pants so technically you’re overdressed.”

She breezes by him, hearing his slight intake of breath, and grins to herself. Score one for Liz. Now they’re even. She makes herself at home without being asked, tossing her messenger bag onto a chair and shedding her leather jacket and signature blue beanie. 

She takes a moment to fix her hair and smooth her blouse, keenly observing the room as she does so – it looks to be a small library – before she quickly turns back to face him, catching him staring at a part of her that definitely isn’t her eyes. 

Well. Fair is fair. She feels herself blush lightly at the welcome attention.

“So,” she starts, cocking her hip, “what are we doing today?”

As she says this, she spies a large, heavy, metal safe on the wide oak table that takes up the right side of the library. How did she not notice it there before? Some thief she is. Not her usual observant self. Granted, Red's jacket-less form _is_ rather distracting... 

He follows her gaze to the safe.

"Ah, yes," he says, "I thought we'd do some lock picking today. I haven't seen you in action yet and while your brush passes rather speak for themselves, I'd like to test your other skills, if you don't mind."

Liz bristles. She can feel shock and anger cross her face.

Test her skills? If she doesn’t mind? Is he joking? Any self-respecting thief would walk straight out on a gig if they heard those words. How dare he –

“I do hope you don’t misunderstand me. I have every confidence in your abilities. I simply think an assessment of your strengths will help us plan for the smoothest entrance and exit possible.”

Oh. Well then. When he puts it like that.

“All right,” Liz says primly, a little ashamed of jumping to conclusions. “Shall we get started?”

“Certainly.” Red agrees happily, pleased to have side-stepped that particular conversational landmine. He wastes no time in launching into what Liz has privately dubbed ‘story-time mode’. “This is a four-tumbler combination lock, quite an exceptional model actually, I have some information on it over here…”

Red turns and walks to a small round table by the loveseat to fetch the ‘information’ and Liz has to force herself not to laugh out loud. Does Red seriously think that she hasn’t seen this safe before? What kind of thief does he think she is? Not a very good one apparently. Well, she’ll show him. 

“…and the tumblers are notoriously tricky to handle. One of my most reliable grifters struggled with this particular model – he was a funny thing, little Indonesian man, swore he couldn’t work with those damn fiddly lock picks, always used a bobby pin…”

As Red prattles on, Liz stealthily reaches inside her messenger bag and retrieves her trusty set of lock picks. They’re old and perhaps getting a little worn but she won’t use any other. She learned with these picks and they’ve never failed her. 

She creeps over to the safe, securely locked and proudly guarding its secrets. For the time being, anyway. Red takes his time shifting through his papers, looking for the correct sheet, rambling on about this associate and that heist, not paying the least bit of attention to her. Liz rolls her eyes. 

Unbelievable.

She has the lock picked in record time, 25 seconds, and by the time Red finally turns back to her, redundant information in hand, Liz is perched on the table with the contents of the safe – Red’s whole collection of passports and identities, evidently – in her lap, quietly snooping through them.

“…so I simply said, ‘Darius, how on earth do you – ‘” Red looks up at her and promptly stops in his tracks, his mouth agape. 

Liz squints at his Canadian passport, turning it this way and that. “You know, I don’t care for this name – Lucius, ugh, doesn’t fit you at all – but I think I like this picture the best.” She taps her chin thoughtfully and then looks up at him through her lashes. “I think a little bit of facial hair looks good on a man. Makes him look a little wild.” She purrs the last sentence and throws him a wink.

He swallows audibly. 

“I see,” he clears his throat and, with visible effort, gathers himself. “I appreciate the feedback.” He mutters sarcastically.

“My pleasure.” Liz responds cheerfully, grinning at the picture that is quickly becoming her favorite look of Red’s.

(She wonders idly what a little scruff on his face would feel like.)

His eyes narrow. “Well, I’ll be sure to remember your preferences the next time I renew my driver’s license.” He snaps. “May I ask how exactly you got into that safe? It’s supposed to be a top model.”

“Oh, it is.” Says Liz simply. “But I’m a top grifter.” She smiles winningly at him.

His lips purse. He strides over to the table to stand next to her, grabbing the passports and stuffing them back in the safe. As he snatches the last passport from her hands, (she tries not to pout), he notices her lock picks on the table.

“You use these rusty old things?” he asks incredulously, picking them up to inspect them. “Surely you can afford better ones, Lizzie.”

His condescending tone immediately grates on her nerves, which she suspects was completely intended, and she snatches them out of his hands, holding them to her chest protectively. 

“I certainly could afford better ones, if I wanted them,” she snaps. “However, I chose to work with these.”

“Why?” Red demands, aghast.

“If you must know, my father gave them to me. They have sentimental value.” She jumps off the table and strides to her bag, quickly tucking her lock picks back inside, protected from his skeptical gaze. She won’t have him insulting her equipment, oh no. “For your information, I used these picks to break into that arms dealer’s warehouse of yours, what was his name? Something Spanish?” 

His eyes narrow and he takes an ominous pause.

“…Miguel.”

“Ah, yes, Miguel. Very inattentive. Well, as I recall, I was rather successful.” She sniffs. And she was. She stole about half a million dollars in Red’s weapons and ammunition and he knows it. She crosses her arms and glares at him.

He glares back.

A tense moment passes, neither backing down. Liz can almost feel the air crackle between them.

Finally, he breaks eye contact and sighs.

“All right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You have my apologizes, Lizzie. I have no right to criticize the tools you use or the reasons you use them. What matters is that they are effective.”

“Agreed,” she says stiffly, still smarting a little.

He peers at her. “Needless to say, Lizzie, you’ve impressed me today. I don’t think I’ll be underestimating you again.”

A strange warmth blossoms in her chest, melting all her previous animosity. Liz can’t help but smile. She has impressed him.

(How is it he can be aggravating her one second, take a moment to smooth things over, and then be back to making her blush like a school girl, all within a few minutes? Amazing.)

“I don’t wish to part on bad terms.” he murmurs regretfully. “May I suggest we shake hands and make up?”

He grins hopefully at her, reminding her vaguely of a guilty but hopeful puppy. Liz’s heart stutters a little at the thought of touching him. 

“I suppose.” She draws out the word and gives a long-suffering sigh, teasing him. She feels her heart beat a little faster as she uncrosses her arms and steps closer, extending her hand.

Their eyes meet as their hands touch and Liz feels a little shock of electricity from both points of contact. His hand is warm and soft, cradling hers gently, while his green gaze burns into hers. Liz feels frozen, staring into his eyes, the air seeming to vibrate between them. 

She feels his thumb make a pass over her knuckles. 

She shivers.

Slowly, he pulls his hand away, his gaze finally moving from her eyes and flitting down to her lips almost imperceptibly. 

“Well,” he says quietly, his voice deeper than before, “you’ll need much less preparation then I was expecting. I think we can proceed with the original heist date as planned.” 

“And when will that be?”

“How does September 20th sound?”

She smiles. “It’s a date.”

His lips twitch into a grin. 

“Be sure to mark it on your calendar.” He murmurs, staring at her with lidded eyes.

Liz blushes.

She should leave. Before she does something stupid. Really, wonderfully, perfectly stupid.

So, with a final nod, she turns to grab her things and strides to the door of the library, feeling a little like she left something of herself locked up in the safe with his passports. What an odd feeling.

“I’ll be in contact in a few days about another meeting.” He calls after her.

“I have no doubt,” she says, aiming for breezy and unconcerned but hearing something a little more insecure. No, she can’t leave things like that. 

“Oh, Red?” she stops in the doorway to look back at him. He is already staring at her. A little thrill goes through her.

“Yes?”

“Next time, how about something a little more challenging, huh?” She winks at him before turning to leave.

His warm chuckle follows her out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Liz walks into the restaurant, standing on her toes as she scans the room for Red. She sees many diners, all dressed in casual, mid-day finery, and paying her no mind. Liz purses her lips. Only Red would invite her to a restaurant like this knowing full well that she would be wearing a leather jacket and a blue beanie. 

Typical.

Red had left a day in between their last meeting before calling again – Liz tried to ignore how happy she was that he didn’t wait a full three days like the last time – and inviting her to lunch to discuss the heist. In a public restaurant. In broad daylight. 

Unbelievable. 

She had assumed that he had reserved the whole stuffy restaurant or something ridiculous for the sake of privacy (that was something rich people did, right?), thinking there was no way he would discuss secret illegal plans surrounded by potentially eavesdropping diners. 

She was wrong. 

He apparently didn’t think anyone would care enough to listen to their heist plans or, if they did, he obviously didn’t care enough to do anything about it. He was happy to sit and enjoy what will probably be a delicious lunch – if the small portions and pristine table cloths are anything to go by – out in the open, where anyone can see him. 

Except Liz, apparently.

She continues to crane her neck, struggling to find him in the busy restaurant. She sees the host spot her and start to make his way over to seat her. Great. She was hoping to slink in unnoticed, feeling very out of place in her current attire, every inch the careless, fresh-out-of-college, youth she pretended to be. She doesn’t even know what name Red gave when reserving his table and it could be anything. If she could just catch a glimpse of him – 

“Hello, can I help you?”

The host interrupts her desperate search, looking at her with undisguised interest. Hm. Well, at least he’s not snobbish and rude. He is cute, after all, despite being several years younger than her, probably actually fresh out of college, as opposed to her. Oh well. Perhaps he can help.

“Um, maybe, I’m looking for a, well, he’s a, uh, he –”

But Liz is saved from struggling to describe the walking enigma that is Raymond Reddington by the sight of a fedora perched on a hat stand near the back of the restaurant. She swears it wasn’t there a second ago but, if it was, it’s no wonder she didn’t see it. He must have secured a private table if he’s all the way back there. She can’t see him but there’s no mistaking that hat, probably worth more than her monthly rent costs.

The host is still watching her hesitantly.

“Oh, never mind, I see him,” she says kindly, relieved, and flashes the young man a smile which seems to dazzle him a little. “I’ll just go and join him.”

She leaves the stuttering waiter behind, catching a quiet little “oh, okay” before she saunters out of earshot, not sorry to be going. He is sweet but much too young for her, even if an on-looker wouldn’t be able to tell. Besides, she’s not interested in a boy. 

She is having lunch with a man. 

(Oh, bad, Liz, bad thought.)

Liz weaves her way carefully through the tables, minding the messenger bag slung across her chest, catching a few stares from elegantly dressed man and woman with her bright blue beanie and wide rimmed glasses, as expected, before she finally rounds the corner to a table situated out of the way in a little alcove. It is still within sight and earshot of a few tables, all of which are suspiciously empty. Perhaps reserving the whole restaurant wasn’t such a far-fetched assumption, after all.

“Lizzie!”

His warm, welcoming voice washes over her, as it always does, making her feel much less out of place than she did in the open dining area. Amazing.

He sits in a fancy chair at the beautifully laid table, looking just like all the other elegant, rich diners in the outer area. She sighs. 

(He’s so out of her league.)

There are only two places at the small table, all the dishes empty, save two goblets of water at each place. Both glasses contain the same amount, however, meaning that Red waited for her to arrive before eating or drinking. Somehow, she’s not surprised. He is an unfailingly polite criminal. She smothers a smile.

“Hi, Red,” she says happily, slinging her bag over the back of the vacant chair across from him. “Where’s Dembe today? Won’t he be joining us?”

Red smiles easily at her, taking a moment to watch her remove her beanie, stuff it a little self-consciously in her bag, and smooth a hand over her ponytail before answering. 

“Dembe is rather a connoisseur of fine foods and he enjoys watching professionals at work. He’s in the kitchen observing.”

Liz raises her eyebrows, surprised and skeptical. She thinks it’s more likely that Dembe is watching over Red’s meal at all stages to make sure no one slips anything in it. That fits with her current profile of Red, appearing completely at ease while really going to all lengths to assuage his paranoia. Poor Dembe, being quarantined to the kitchen to watch his boss’s food, how unfair – 

“I know what you’re thinking, Lizzie, and it’s nothing like that. Dembe is quite an enthusiastic chef. You should try his dishes, they’re exquisite. His mushroom ravioli with sun dried tomatoes and white wine sauce is to die for. And don’t even get me started on his desserts.”

Liz smiles, amused by Red’s gushing over Dembe. Perhaps their relationship is something deeper than it appears at first glance. She’ll be sure to observe them more closely from now on.

“I see. So, he is a willing student of the kitchen, is he?” she questions, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Very much so,” Red says happily. “I’ll tell him you were worried for him though, he’ll be touched. If you’re lucky, he may even make you his famous crème bruleé as a thank you.” 

“Good, is it?”

“Positively indulgent,” Red hums, his voice deep and his eyes dark. Liz stares back at him, entranced. The air warms between them.

(Liz suddenly wonders what would happen if she took advantage of their seclusion at this private table, out of sight, alone, together –)

And then a male waiter materializes out of thin air – luckily a different young man than the one Liz talked to before – and the heated staring contest between Red and Liz comes to an abrupt end. Liz can’t help but feel both relieved and disappointed. 

She reaches for her water goblet and takes a fortifying gulp.

“Are you and the young lady ready to order, Mr. Kershaw?” the man asks professionally, completely unaware of what he just interrupted. “Would you perhaps like some wine to get you started?”

“Yes, please, Walter,” Red says smoothly, turning away from Liz to address the waiter he is obviously familiar with. “I think we’ll share a bottle of ’76 Merlot, if that’s all right with you, of course, Lizzie?”

Liz, who hasn’t even glanced at the beautiful menu covered with curly writing, nods easily. “Sure, I’ll have a glass.”

“Very good, ma’am,” the waiter nods and disappears again.

Liz sighs, turning to the menu, on the hunt for something that looks good. She doesn’t even know where to begin. But she certainly doesn’t want to admit it to Red.

“If I may, Lizzie, I would recommend the chicken marsala with roasted potatoes and red wine sauce. It’s delicious, easily my favorite thing on the menu.”

Well. That sounds lovely. How convenient. But she doesn’t want to admit that either.

“Hmmm,” she hums noncommittally. “Thank you for the suggestion. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

Liz pretends to read the rest of the menu thoroughly, already having settled on the chicken marsala. Then she thinks of a way to tease him more. She can’t resist.

“Red wine sauce, you said?”

“Yes. Why, are you not a fan of wine?”

“Oh, no, certainly, I am. I love a good glass of red before bed just as much as the next girl,” Liz smirks at him over the rim of her glasses. “I’m just sensing a theme with your suggestions here, Red. Not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

Red only grins at her, his eyes sparkling. “Perhaps I am,” he murmurs.

Another moment starts to grow between them but is quickly stopped once again by the return of their waiter with their ordered bottle of wine. Liz is starting to feel a distinct distaste for this poor server and his timing. But then he pours her a generous glass of wine and she feels a little more friendly.

“Are you perhaps ready to order?”

“Lizzie?”

“Yes, I am. But you first, please.”

“Of course,” Red agrees easily, wasting no time in ordering his preferred chicken dish.

The waiter simply nods, making no move to write the order down. Liz tries not to be impressed by that. This order will probably be the least complicated thing he serves all day. He turns to look at her expectantly.

“And I’ll have the same, please,” Liz says politely. The waiter just nods again before taking their menus and moving off.

“Well, well. You took my advice, after all,” Red says to her slyly, regaining her attention effortlessly.

“Well, you know, there’s a first time for everything,” Liz says cheekily, reaching for her wine glass. 

Red smirks at her, picking up his own glass and clinking it gently with hers before she can bring it to her mouth. “Indeed,” he purrs, holding her eyes as he takes a sip from his glass. 

She blushes.

(Oh, my.)

“Well, I was under the impression this was a working lunch. Am I mistaken?” Liz prompts after another long moment, struggling to break Red’s gaze long enough to form coherent words.

Red continues to stare at her for a second even after she looks away. She can feel his gaze on her, a warm, drugging thing, before he nods to himself and slips into his businessman persona.

(Liz can see the change in him easily, another person sliding into place as if a switch has been flipped.)

“No, you’re absolutely right. A working lunch it is,” Red confirms, straightening in his chair. “Details are coming together well for the heist.”

“Excellent,” Liz murmurs. “Any chance you want to fill me in on those details? I’m used to running solo on gigs like this. I feel quite left in the dark.”

“I’m sorry, Lizzie, that’s not at all my intention,” Red frowns, leaning forward to convey his sincerity. “It’s only logistical things that I’ve been organizing. I invited you to lunch today for the very purpose of filling you in.”

“Oh, good,” Liz says easily. She doesn’t feel any animosity towards Red for the lack of information. She believes him when he says he was intending to tell her. She just wants to prod him along a little, with the heist date drawing closer every day. “So, what do I need to know?”

Red gives her a little smile of thanks for understanding and takes another sip of wine before answering her. 

“We’ll rob AM&R Bank at two o’clock in the afternoon on September the twentieth.”

Liz almost chokes on her mouthful of wine. 

“What? We’re robbing one of the most secure banks in D.C. in broad daylight? Are you crazy?”

“Quite possibly,” Red grins at her a little madly. “But this is a perfectly sane decision, I assure you, Lizzie.”

Liz puts down her glass and pushes it far away from her. Perhaps drinking wine at a working lunch with Raymond Reddington is not a good idea.

She crosses her arms. “Care to elaborate?” she asks primly.

“With pleasure,” Red answers happily. “As demonstrated beautifully by your response, the best time to commit any crime is when the ones who would stop you least expect it. This is especially true with a robbery. If the guards aren’t expecting a break-in, they won’t see one. The human mind is a remarkable thing, as I’m sure you’re aware, Lizzie.”

Liz purses her lips, mulling over his logic and the obvious reference to her psychology background. She has to admit he has a point. But that doesn’t mean she agrees with him.

“All right,” she says a little tersely.

Red frowns slightly. “You don’t sound completely on board.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Liz answers simply. “I admit that your logic is sound but only in theory. In reality, it simply can’t hold up.”

“And why is that?” Red challenges, seeming intrigued by her defiance and genuinely interested in her opinion.

Liz stares at him evenly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my studies of the human mind, it’s that people rarely do as they’re expected. There’s so many random variables that you’re not taking into account in this situation.”

“Like what?” he asks immediately, an odd sparkle in his eyes that pulls Liz forward in her seat, leaning towards him and lowering her voice into something more intimate. 

“What if the guard on duty decides to have an extra espresso shot in his coffee that morning, making him more observant and on edge than he usually is? What if one of the cameras needs unscheduled maintenance and it’s left tilted two inches further to the left than you originally anticipated, at the perfect angle to catch our faces? What if Amos Rodfield himself decides to show up and inspect his bank that day and we’re caught? There are simply too many unknowns.”

Red nods seriously, leaning forward to match her posture, placing his forearms on the table, and looks earnestly into her eyes. “Absolutely. We need to be able to control as many factors in this situation as possible if we are to be successful in our operation.”

Liz nods, pleased. Good, she’s convinced him to see her side of things, excellent, perhaps now he’ll – 

“Which is why I’ve planted a guard to be on duty that afternoon, a most trusted friend named Amilo, who, as it happens, abhors coffee. I’ll have one of my own men check the cameras and install fake feeds during the morning shift to avoid any unexpected technological mishaps. And, as far as Amos goes, I know his schedule. He’ll be on vacation with his young girlfriend Bridget in the Bahamas on the day of the heist.”

Liz blinks. 

Oh. 

“Do you agree with me now, Lizzie?” Red asks, a slight taunt in his voice as he leans closer conspiratorially, a dark twinkle in his eyes. 

Liz stares back at him for a moment, mouth agape, entranced and in wonder at his brilliant mind, before looking down at her empty plate with a huffed little laugh. Impressive. But she can’t let him off the hook that easily.

“No,” she murmurs, looking up to catch his expression. 

She sees his self-assured grin slips in an instant, the corners of his mouth pulling down in an unexpected frown. 

How satisfying.

“You can only control so many factors, Red. And as impressive as all those things are, committing a robbery in the middle of the day is still a large and unnecessary risk.”

They stare at each other in silence, both sets of eyes flicking back and forth to watch the other.

(There is no anger or resentment between them, only good-natured tension and excitement, a friendly debate to see who wins. Liz loves the feeling.)

“But,” Liz suddenly breaks the silence with a careless shrug, moving abruptly to sit back in her seat, secretly lamenting the new distance between them. “It’s your heist, Red. So, I’ll show up whatever time you tell me to.” 

She grins teasingly at him. She wants to make it clear that there are no hard feelings between them, at least not on her end.

Red seems to get the message, returning her smile after a searching look and a slow nod, easing back in his seat to copy her posture.

“That’s good to know,” he murmurs finally. “And, while I accept your reasons for thinking otherwise, I’d still like to perform the heist during the day.”

“All right,” Liz says easily, taking a sip of wine. 

(She was right to save it. She needed her wits about her for that round.)

Red follows her lead, sipping his wine as well, observing her as he does so.

“So, you would never perform a heist during the day?” he asks, the teasing back in his voice, happy that they got through a mild disagreement without serious complications. 

“Well,” Liz lilts, unable to resist playing with him a little. “Not by choice, no.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve found that I always perform best at night.” 

She looks up at him coyly, making her innuendo clear, pleased to see his lips quirk and his gaze darken as he looks at her. 

“Oh, I have no doubt,” he rumbles.

Liz lets out a breathy laugh and they watch each other in rapt fascination until suddenly their waiter reappears with their identical lunches.

(And she is sure that in that moment they were both contemplating a “night performance” and the thought alone heats her cheeks.)

Red turns to their waiter, making a show out of thanking him for the quick service, using no shortage of flattery as he does so. Liz, grateful for the personal moment, takes a deep breath and attempts to steady her heart rate. Who knew lunch with Raymond Reddington could be this exhilarating?

(Oh, but she is enjoying herself.)

Liz looks back up as the waiter moves off again, feeling a little more in control and ready to tackle whatever disarming looks Red may choose to throw at her next. 

(And perhaps throw some of her own. She can’t let him have all the fun.)

“This smells amazing,” Liz says. And it’s true. The chicken looks perfectly done with just the right amount of sauce. Her stomach grumbles. She suddenly remembers that she’s only had some buttered toast to eat today and that was this morning. 

Red smiles at her. “I hope you enjoy it,” he tells her sincerely, picking up his wine glass and holding it towards her. “Cheers.”

Liz quickly picks up her glass to clink it against his once again. “Cheers.”

They dig in, Liz starting with her potatoes and Red going right for the chicken, cutting it up into neat pieces before delicately dipping it in the sauce. 

(He is a methodical eater, Liz notices, much like herself, further reinforcing her suspicion that they have similar minds, detail-oriented and organized. The thought that they have things in common thrills her.)

They eat in silence for a few comfortable minutes before Red speaks.

“So, Lizzie,” he begins. 

Liz looks up from her half-empty plate with her eyebrows raised politely.

“Yes?”

“Now that work is out of the way for now, should we indulge in some pleasant meal-time conversation?”

“Certainly, if you like,” answers Liz with a grin, amused by his playfully formal attitude. “Or, we could continue to sit in companionable silence until it gets unbearably awkward from lack of speech and one of us excuses themselves to the bathroom in a desperate attempt to get away.” 

Red chuckles warmly at her. “Yes, we could also do that, although I must admit I would prefer the former.”

Liz smiles back at him. “Yes, I would as well.”

(She can’t imagine even a hint of awkwardness permeating the air between them. She just suggested it to be funny. Red is simply too comfortable to be awkward. Too suave and confident and handsome –)

“So, what should we talk about?” asks Liz, out of both genuine curiosity and an effort to halt that line of thought in its tracks.

Red takes a moment to drink his wine, swishing the liquid around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, clearly pondering her question. Then, having come to a decision, he looks up at her suddenly, his gaze direct and piercing.

“I’d like to talk about you.”

Liz blinks in surprise, her fork, chicken and all, stopping halfway to her mouth. “Me?”

Red’s mouth twitches. “Yes, Lizzie. You.”

Liz puts her fork down and takes a drink before answering, a little confused. “I’m not sure what there is to talk about that you don’t already know. I’m a professional grifter. I pick locks and do brush passes and steal things. That’s about it.”

“Those are your professional qualifications, Lizzie. I know all about those. I’m talking about more personal things.”

Liz frowns. “Personal things? Are you telling me you didn’t already have your henchman look up everything little thing about me?”

This time, Red’s eye twitches instead of his mouth. Hit. “Intel, for the purposes of the heist, mind you, only tell me so much,” Red murmurs. “I want to know more about you, Lizzie, as a person, not as a grifter, impressive though that side of you may be.”

“Oh,” Liz murmurs, feeling a little touched that Red would even be interested in her that way. 

(She tries to tamp down the little flutters in her stomach at words “Red” and “interested in her”.) 

“Well,” she says, feeling more at ease now. “What would you like to know?”

Red smiles a kind smile, his eyes warm and attentive. “Where did you grow up?” he asks softly.

Liz smiles back. “Nebraska.”

And it goes on from there, Red asking questions and Liz providing answers, opening up more as time passes. Red is an active participant, making it a true conversation, adding comments or occasionally sharing a related story of his own. 

(He is a fantastic storyteller, engaging but not overpowering, and she thinks that she could listen to him all day, would like to, in fact. But, for some reason, he’s more interested in her right now and that creates a different but equally pleasant feeling inside her.)

Liz does most of the talking, the rest of her meal going cold on her plate while Red picks a little more at his own before abandoning it completely to give her his full attention. And Liz doesn’t mind not finishing her plate; she was getting full anyway and she can have the leftovers for dinner tonight. 

(And the fact that Red values what she’s saying over their delicious lunch of chicken marsala – and he was right, it is fabulous – speaks volumes to her.)

Liz isn’t sure how long they talk but she knows she never wants it to end. She’s never enjoyed talking about herself very much but with Red, she doesn’t feel like something on display to be picked at and dissected, like she does with most people. She can feel his attention on her but it is polite and courteous and interested, a warm, flattering thing. It doesn’t suffocate her or pressure her like other people’s eyes do and instead gives her just the right amount of welcome to feel safe.

(It’s a lovely feeling.)

Liz isn’t sure how long they would have sat there talking and sharing and laughing if Dembe had not suddenly appeared by Red’s elbow, staring at him meaningfully until Red finished his current story (which left Liz holding a stitch in her side from laughing so hard) and managed to tear his openly adoring gaze from her. 

“Yes, Dembe?”

“We must leave now if you are to make your three o’clock meeting, Raymond,” Dembe says quietly. 

Liz’s mouth falls open in shock and she quickly turns to root around in her bag for her phone, needing to see the time for herself. She manages to extract it with minimal struggle and unlocks the screen. Dembe is right, of course. It is half past two. Her and Red have been eating and talking for just over two hours. 

(Time flies when you’re…well.)

Red nods, gently dismissing Dembe, and takes a moment to shift back into his business man persona. Liz watches quietly, lamenting the return of Raymond Reddington and the departure of Red. 

He turns to look at her. “Well, Lizzie, I’m truly sorry to say it but I do have to be going.”

“That’s all right,” Liz says, trying not to let disappointment bleed into her voice. “I didn’t realize how long it’s been. I can’t expect to steal any more of your time.”

Red shakes his head at her. “You of all people should know, Lizzie. The word ‘theft’ implies that you took something I wasn’t offering. And that was certainly not the case.”

Liz blushes lightly at his words, feeling quite light-headed at the clear insinuation. 

(And perhaps it’s best that they part ways now; she’s not sure how much more overt flirting she can take without breaking out into childish giggles. How much wine has she had anyway?)

Red raises a hand to signal their waiter, who was apparently waiting nearby, unnoticed by Liz, and he hurries towards the table. 

“Yes, Mr. Kershaw?”

“Walter, could we have the rest of the young lady’s meal to go, please?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Kershaw. I’ll be right back, sir.”

Red thanks the waiter who, to Liz’s surprise, whisks her plate out from in front of her and takes it away. Well, the service in this restaurant is certainly something. At the eateries Liz frequents, they usually just toss a flimsy box in her general direction. What a change.

Liz takes a breath. “Thank you for such a lovely afternoon, Red. The meal was delicious and the company was…better.” She smiles at him, trying to make her feelings clear.

“You’re very welcome, Lizzie. I assure you it was my pleasure. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

(And Liz thinks she might hear a bit of a tremble in Red’s voice as he says this, just a hint of uncertainty. It’s so unfounded that it’s almost laughable.)

“Oh, I think so, yes,” she says with a kind smile.

He smiles back at her gratefully and they just look at one another until the waiter re-appears, placing a small take-out bag on the table in front of her. She thanks him profusely and, once he’s gone, finally moves to stand. Red follows suit.

“Well, I expect I’ll be hearing from you?” Liz inquires cheerfully.

“Oh, yes,” Red hums, looking into her eyes. “I’ll give you a call.” 

“Excellent,” chirps Liz, finding it hard to pull her gaze – and body – away from Red and his magnetic presence.

(Well, she has to leave sometime, doesn’t she?)

“I’ll talk to you soon then,” she says happily, and he simply nods at her. She turns to leave.

Liz makes her way back to the front of the restaurant, weaving through the tables in same way she came in. The only difference is that this time, she can feel Red’s eyes on her back until the door closes behind her.

* * *

Liz kicks the door of her apartment shut with a sigh, heading right for the kitchen to drop her bag of leftovers off in the fridge. As it happens, she’s not hungry, even after a full day of errands and shopping after leaving Red at the restaurant. It’s early evening now and she can always eat later.

She turns on some lights as she makes her way through her apartment, growing dim in the evening light, and tosses her bag on its usual chair, somehow managing not to stub her toe on any furniture as she goes. Amazing. 

Liz enters the kitchen and sets the bag of leftovers on the counter, reaching in and feeling around for what should be a small box of chicken marsala, only to be confronted with what feels distinctly like two boxes.

She frowns. 

Liz pulls out both boxes and sets them on the counter, squinting at them in confusion. After a moment’s deliberation, she opens the box on the left to reveal her entrée. So, then what is in the other box? Did the waiter perhaps give her Red’s leftovers as well? No, Red’s plate was still on the table when she left. So, what –

She carefully opens the mystery box and gasps aloud. A huge slice of tiramisu sits there, looking absolutely delicious. The scent of coffee meets her nose seconds later and her mouth waters. Liz loves tiramisu. How did Red – 

Ring, ring.

Liz jumps, a little startled, and goes running for her discarded bag, her phone’s muffled ring tone luckily still audible from inside. After a brief struggle involving her car keys, a pair of earbuds, and her lockpicks, Liz finally manages to extract her phone and glance at the screen before pressing accept. 

Unknown. 

Her heart flips in her chest.

“Hello?”

“Lizzie.”

“Red,” she breathes, not realizing how she sighs his name until she’s already done it. 

“Is this a good time?”

Liz can’t help but smile. Polite criminal. “Yes, perfect actually, I just got home.”

“Wonderful,” Red says and she’s sure she can hear a smile in his voice. “Did you, uh, get a chance to get settled?”

“If you mean look in my bag of leftovers and find the tiramisu, then yes, I did,” Liz can’t help but get straight to the point. 

“Ah, yes, that’s rather what I meant,” he sounds a little hesitant, though Liz can’t imagine why. “Did you, uh, are you, well, do you –”

It takes a second for Liz to understand what he’s trying to ask. “Oh, yes, I love tiramisu!” she hurries to reassure him. “Yes, I could hardly believe it, it’s my favorite, how did you do it?”

Red gives a relieved chuckle, so deep she thinks that her phone might have warmed a little in her hand. “It was just a lucky guess. I know you’re a fan of coffee, at least in the morning, since I had some with you in your apartment last week, so I figured it was a safe bet that you’d like tiramisu. And I just slipped a note to Walter when you weren’t looking, that’s all. I’m surprised you didn’t catch me, to be honest.”

“So am I,” murmurs Liz, truly impressed that Red managed to perform what was basically a brush pass right in front of her without her noticing. “Well, thank you very much, I can’t wait to dig in.”

“You’re very welcome, Lizzie, and I’ll let you get to it in just a moment. I was just calling to see if you’d like to practice a little tomorrow.”

Liz frowns to herself. “Practice?”

“Yes, for the heist,” he answers, excitement now clear in his voice. “I was just thinking it might be a good idea to see how we work together under pressure before the big day. Just to be safe, you know.”

Liz has to admit it’s a good idea. She hasn’t done too many joint gigs – since she definitely prefers to work alone – but with the few partners she’s had, it’s never quite worked out.

(She has a funny feeling that Red is different though. In more ways than one.)

But, it can’t hurt to practice, as Red says. 

“All right,” she agrees eagerly. “Do you have anywhere specific in mind?”

“Not really,” he says idly. “I figured I’d get your opinion on that since you’re no doubt more experienced in the field than I am. Of course, we could always meet at outside your apartment and wander until we find an appropriate location to steal a little something. Or is that too spur-of-the-moment for you?”

He sounds genuinely concerned that this won’t be to her liking, apparently oblivious to the fact that that’s exactly the sort of thing Liz had so much fun doing with her friends in high school. Besides, what better way to test themselves as a team than not planning a thing, all the while knowing that the actual heist will be planned down to the last detail?

“No, no, that’s fine,” Liz assures him. “Spontaneous crime is my favorite kind of crime, as it happens, however did you guess?” she quirks her mouth up in a teasing grin even though he can’t see her. 

“I seem to be on a winning streak today,” he hums.

Liz presses her phone close to her ear. “One could almost say you’re getting lucky.”

Red’s delighted chuckle at her innuendo fills her whole body and she laughs breathily along with him. 

“One can only hope,” he murmurs, making her smirk. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” Liz says, happy at the prospect of seeing him again so soon. “Does nine-ish sound okay?”

“It’s a date,” he murmurs.

“Excellent,” she hums. “I’ll see you then.”

“Good night, Lizzie. Enjoy your dessert.” 

“Good night, Red, and thank you again.”

Liz hangs up, breathless and tingly, and does nothing but stand stupidly in her kitchen for a second, a ridiculous grin on her face. 

Oh, Red.

Then she gets another whiff of the tiramisu and snaps out of it, turning to grab a fork from the drawer next to the sink. She wastes no more time digging into the tiramisu, spearing a generous forkful and putting it in her mouth, closing her eyes with a tiny moan as the coffee flavor explodes on her tongue. As she swallows, already helping herself to another bite, she catches herself having the oddest thought. 

She wishes Red was here to share dessert with her.

Oh. 

Oh, she’s got it bad.


End file.
